Note to my readers: A friend pointed out yesterday that, were I to truly reference Steinbeck, I would have to call the blog “Travels with Spackle.” While Spackle does come on some of my trips, he doesn’t come on all. If I were to go with “Travels with Calin,” that would imply that I were the poodle. And I’m not.

Jerome Creek, 24 June 2005

A Country Day
The Jerome Creek place is in the eastern edge of the Palouse, a gorgeous region of rolling meadows and fields accented by hilltop stands of evergreen and birch trees, occasional outcrops of rock, and twisting creeks. Several small towns, with populations between 200 and 2000, also dot the landscape, laced together by the rivulets and narrow ribbons of highway. Yesterday, for the first time in all the years I’ve been coming here, Ian and I decided to explore. We popped the dogs into the back of the car (lifting gimpy Spackle but merely standing aside for Kit, who hopped in under his own power), filled our waterbottles, and hit the White Pine Scenic Highway, bound for St Maries.

The road flowed over and around gentle rises, past weathered barns and outbuildings, occasional herds of cows, one flock of sheep, and frequent horses. We passed evidence of a sense of humor—an outhouse by the side of the road, with white-painted letters declaring it “Stephanie and Will’s House”. Farther on, we noted a stand of four mailboxes, with a fifth at least 8 feet in the air, on the top of a pole. “Airmail,” it said on the side.

This is the time of year for roadwork, and we encountered our fair share, waiting nearly 15 minutes in one place for the “Lead Car Follow Me,” which, we realized during the following, was driving back and forth along the repaving as quickly as possible—it took us at least 20 minutes to get through.

St Maries is a sizeable town, a former logging outpost like many of the communities in this part of the Palouse (St Maries might actually be out of the Palouse). We stopped only briefly at an old drive-in for milkshakes, black raspberry for Ian, rootbeer for me. We exchanged slurps—Ian’s was so thick it was basically ice cream, but he put his considerable practice in fast consumption to work and finished, with a tired mouth, at the same time as me.

We only made one more stop, at a vacant National Forest Service campground, to let the dogs wade in the St Maries River and us stretch our legs. Spackle, true to form, immediately submerged himself, then cut out strongly for the opposite bank, looking much like an otter until he pulled up short at a hearty bush and began harvesting sticks.

I went out for a solo bareback ride on The Sofa when we returned, visiting a couple of familiar loops. One part of the trail is a smooth, grassy upward slope that the horses love to gallop up—Erika and I taught them that a few years ago and they haven’t forgotten—and yesterday was no exception. Once I convinced Shadow that she did want to cross this small bit of creek and she realized where we were going, it was all I could do to hold her back in a trot. As soon as I had determined that we were, in fact, heading the right way, I said merely “Okay,” and she shot off as if with the aid of rocket boosters. This horse can move, and loves to. 20 years she may have, but she’s not old, and her gallop is smooth as silk. She’s a bit out of shape, though, and had to pause for a breather about 2/3 of the way up. She recovered quickly, and shot up again, this time through scrub (I had several strands of brush around my ankles by the time we reached the top).

Cattle and calves are all over the forest land this time of year, it not being hunting season, and they’re often very quiet until you startle them, which then startles the horses. Cattle have nothing on deer, though, for the startle factor—deer are more flighty than the horses, even, and will leap crashing into the woods in a flash. Yesterday, as Shadow and I approached a crossroads, one direction leading home and the other leading where I wanted to go, she caught sight of a whitetail deer. Ears pricked, entirely focused on the deer, she didn’t really notice when I turned her left, away from home, and started down a new trail. The deer leapt away, her attention came back to me and the path, and she realized she’d been duped. Her head came up, she slowed her pace, looked over her shoulder, flicked an ear at me, then sighed and continued on. While Shadow’s homing instinct is highly evolved—she both knows where home is, and wants to go there—she, more than the other horses, also really loves to be out for a ride, which makes the pleasure of communion with horse and nature all the more exquisite. Really, there’s nothing else like it.

To end a quintessentially rural America day, we had dinner at the Hoo Doo Tavern in Harvard, ID, about four miles away. On the menu—ice cold Bud, and German sausage with kraut, processed Swiss cheese and mustard, and onion rings. Perfect.